


Stars in their eyes (but I will always find yours)

by Televa



Category: The Boys in the Band (1970), The Boys in the Band (2020)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Era, Canon Queer Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, Relationship Problems, Relationship Study, Self-Doubt, queer slurs used by a queer person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27412324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Televa/pseuds/Televa
Summary: Love is a terrible thing, really. It makes you drop everything you have and everyone you know, the life itself as you had known it, and it makes you chase an idea of what could be, what should be. The worst part of love is that it gives you hope, and hope is all they have left.
Relationships: Hank/Larry (Boys in the Band)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	Stars in their eyes (but I will always find yours)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lehnsherry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lehnsherry/gifts).



> Guess who found herself thinking way too much of a rare pare - YET AGAIN.
> 
> English isn't my first language, I go by too-spoopy-to-be-frukd on tumblr, kudos and comments are more than welcome, just let me know what you think about it. I'm desperate.
> 
> For my dear friend who has to deal with my rare pare bullshit almost 24/7.

It's well past midnight when Hank finally stands up.

"Maybe," he starts slowly, "we should go home." They have overstayed their welcome in Michael's bedroom a very long time ago already, the luxurious bed sheets too soft underneath relentless fingers. They heard how Michael broke down downstairs, felt the agony of his cries in their bones. Then, a moment later, a door had been shut down with force so strong it had rattled the frames upstairs and the whole foundation of the house, leaving behind nothing but silence that was only disturbed by the dragging steps of Donald moving around the flat. 

"I'd like that," Larry answers and stands up. The door to the bathroom is open, the mirror giving him full exposure to how completely smudged he looks like. Once a clean shirt is now wrinkled and there are tear stains and dried snot on his shoulder. His face looks swollen and there's this terrible headache pounding in the back of his head, eating away sanity like a hungry animal feeding on a fresh hunt. Crying has left his eyes red and puffy and they look almost as bad as Hank's, and as Larry stares at his reflection, for the first time in their life together, there is nothing of himself to be recognized in the mirror. A stranger, that's what he looks like now. 

It leaves him terrified. 

No matter how hard he tries to hide it, to keep up the appearance of an exasperated spouse, Hank draws him in like a magnet. It has been like this right from the start even since a common friend introduced them to each other in a New Year's party a few years ago. He had looked stunning in a suit leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand as watching the fireworks made his eyes glimmer with pure joy. 

Larry had been starstruck from the first heartbeat. 

Love is a terrible thing, really. It makes you drop everything you have and everyone you know, the life itself as you had known it, and it makes you chase an idea of what could be, what should be. The worst part of love is that it gives you hope, and hope is all they have left. Larry could insist to the ends of the world it being a lost cause, that they're nothing but a pair of too stubborn fairies to let go of something there once was, but no matter what he could make himself believe, there's no denying that as they look at each other it's with hope shining in their eyes.

At this point Hank is like a magnet, someone who he will always find his way to, let it be through dark city alleys or oceans of people on busy streets across the city. No matter how many beds he can find to warm or how many rushed orgasms he can reach in a dirty disco toilet, it's Hank he shares his address with. It's their bed he crawls in after nightfall. It's Hank he comes to. 

To love is also to hate, and to hate is to also to love. It wouldn't work any other way anyway, at least not for them. The only thing left to do is to harden your heart and hope it will all sort itself out. 

Again and again and again. 

\--

It's the middle of July but the cool air that hits their faces once outside makes a shudder run through Larry. His shirt is still a bit damp from the unexpected downpour that so rudely had cut short a good rooftop party. A cab is hailed, a car door opened, a flat, and the memories left behind. It suits him though, sharing space with Donald had been more than awkward despite almost desperate efforts to forget it all.

"A bad evening?" asks the can driver as they speed through the streets void of any other traffic.

"Yeah, you could say that." It's Hank who replies first, never fazed by small talk with strangers while Larry prefers silence over pointless conversations with people he won’t meet ever again.

"Had a celebration for a friend's birthday but the evening didn't go as expected,” Hank continues as the driver urges him to go on. Christ, why on earth are all drivers so fucking curious, don't they have enough gossip going in their own lives or is it a requierement of employment to be a nosy fuck? 

Larry keeps it all to himself and just leans his head against the chilly window. The driver keeps on chatting with Hank who seems so frustratingly content with the whole situation, like this is exactly where he has wanted to be the whole day. It has to be the teacher side of him that’s coached him with a never ending stamina for social situations like it. It's almost admirable, although interactions with customers tend to be just as exhausting as keeping an order in a classroom full of hormone filled kiddos.

Perhaps one day there will be a day when he doesn't need to break down to every single customer how pricing is formed or what costs are or how being alive costs actual money and not just exposure, whatever the hell that would be in practice.

Exhausting, the lot of them.

\--

By the time they are finally home, Larry is more than tired and pissed off. They get inside and he makes a beeline to the bathroom leaving Hank stand alone in the dark hallway.

He reeks of alcohol and sweat and Hank’s cologne and the mix of smells makes him sick. Throwing the clothes into a hamper feels almost cathartic and once hot water hits his back, he’s able to breath again. The water’s running loud enough to conceal whatever noises Hank might make as he walks around the small flat and as Larry leans his head against the white tiles of the bathroom wall, a surge of unexpected anxiety runs through him. Ever since leaving Michael’s they haven’t spoken a word to each other apart from Hank suggesting them going back to home and then saying goodbyes to Donald.  
If distance is what Larry’s been wanting from Hank so long, why does this silence between them feel like a growing abyss that sucks all the life from around it into itself, leaving behind nothing but desperation? It _hurts_ so, so bad in a way he hasn’t felt pain in a long time. 

He closes the tap and steps out. Nothing has changed.

Once changed into pjs the silence between them is still growing and growing, filling the empty rooms like an uninvited guest. Larry makes a cup of chamomile tea while Hank readies the bed and they’re avoiding each other now with uncertainty of what to say or do. It’s not that there’s nothing he wants to do, quite the contrary: There’s so much he wants to do, to scream and shout and make Hank understand, but how could he ever when he’s done so much for Larry already and he still keeps on asking more and more and more, as if he hasn’t had all the affirmation from Hank that he’s here to stay like an stubborn mule. It had required just one look and three words and Hank had dropped everything he knew. For _him_ to top it all.

A thing like that is a hell of a burden to lay on someone’s shoulders no matter the situation. There are days when it hits Larry all over again, the severity of it all, and the feeling of being a burden presses his shoulders a little more.

The headlights of a passing car illuminate the bedroom ceiling giving sudden light to the surrounding darkness. As the streaks of light move across the room they pass over Hank’s face as he stands on the doorway Larry becomes aware he’s been crying again. Hank sniffles and it makes his heart sink and shatter and simply _die_.

This was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill birthday party with terrible inside jokes, Emory’s usual dramatic extravaganza and the constant, openly hurtful bickering between Harold and Michael. The boy whore had been a delightfully amusing surprise but as the boy had been skirting around them with a strong air of stupid-like obliviousness they had lost any true interest in him quite quickly. Larry should have anticipated something bad would happen when a group like theirs gets together, but the fucking straight overstaying his presence _even after punching Emory in the face_ and the stupid phone game had turned the whole evening too sour, too quickly. It left a bad taste in his mouth just like the remnants of whiskey mixing with minty toothpaste tingling on his tongue.

 _Heatwave’s_ too bright melody is stuck in a loop in his head. Larry feels suddenly sick and has to sit down. 

Hank sits down too, next to him on his side of the bed. He’s about to reach for the night lamp but changes his mind midway, gets stuck in an unnatural position. He reaches for Larry instead, seeking his hand in his, and the moment their skins come into contact everything else stops. Larry turns.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

It’s too late for talking about this kind of things. They’re both tired and still a bit tipsy, but tomorrow, they will talk. Tomorrow, they have to find a solution. It scares him a great deal, to be for once so completely vulnerable and open. Talking about what you want is easy, talking frankly about feelings and thoughts is not.

But, Hank doesn’t pull away as Larry leans in and lowers his head against his chest. It’s good enough for now and he squeezes Hank’s hand.

Hank squeezes back, and it gives them both hope.

**Author's Note:**

> SJDHDJSKD _apparently_ being sleep deprived and staying up until 7am makes you forget and mix up characters' names.


End file.
